


Into Battle

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Birth, M/M, Mpreg, Omega John, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fuck me, Sherlock, I’m not in labor. Let’s go to the grocery store, Sherlock, my waters won’t break,” Sherlock joked, looking at John with a loving smile and a shake of his head. “Put the frozens away, I promise I won’t deliver our son without you here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Battle

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This work was co-written by bobbin-baggo.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: annabagnell.tumblr.com
> 
> Commissions are open!

John pushed himself up to sit and stretched lazily, curling his toes into the sheets and stretching his arms up above his head until his shoulders popped. The sun was peeking in through the blinds, filling the room with a warm, yellow light, and John smiled. He hadn't slept well, but at least he’d slept fractionally better than he had as of late - the baby had been still long enough for him to sleep for a few hours, which was more than he’d gotten in quite some time. He looked down thoughtfully at the heavy, round bulge sitting in his lap, and gave the exposed skin a loving stroke.

 

It was a little after nine in the morning, and he looked over to see his mate sprawled across his side of the bed, inky curls shimmering with a red tint in the sunlight. John leaned over and pressed gentle kisses to the shell of Sherlock's ear, slipping an arm around his waist. "Good morning, love,” he whispered, his voice gruff with sleep. 

 

Sherlock rumbled a "good morning" in reply, stretching languorously before rolling over to face John. "Sleep well?" He asked, his voice rough. He reached over to run his hand across the gravid curve of John's belly, his ritual morning greeting to the baby his mate carried. 

 

"No," John admitted with something of a laugh. "I did sleep, though, so I think I've scored at least a few points there." He shifted a bit so he could lean down and press his lips to Sherlock's, giving him a lingering and rather fervent kiss. "And yourself?"

 

"I slept fine," Sherlock replied, a bit dazed. "You seem...energetic, for having not gotten much sleep." He sat up, matching John's stance, laying his hands on John's belly and rubbing it gently. The baby didn't stir, which didn't surprise Sherlock. It hadn't moved much as of late, running out of room to move as it grew to take up all John's available space. "Is everything alright?"  

 

"Oh, yeah," John answered idly, sliding his hands over his abdomen to meet Sherlock's. "I don't know. Last burst of energy before the baby comes, I suppose." His due date was a mere five days away, after all. "We've still got some things to do. I don't think we have enough wipes. And I'd like to get some groceries before we get holed up with a newborn."

 

"Fair enough," Sherlock replied, shrugging. "We can run out and pick up some more supplies. God only knows how long it might be before I have enough time to spare to go out and get more groceries." He made a face, already loathing having to do the shopping alone. He continued to rub John's belly gently, a small smile spreading across his face as he felt a gentle nudge against his hand. 

 

John suddenly pushed himself to roll onto his knees with a grunt, the effort making the mattress rock and squeak with the movement. Sherlock seemed a tad startled by the sudden shift, but John swung his leg over until he was sitting on his mate's lap, looking at him deviously. He blew out a heavy breath, grinning. "God only knows how long it'll be before you'll get to fuck me again."

 

Sherlock's hands settled instinctively on John's waist, or what was left of it. "So that's what this was about," he murmured, thumbs brushing the bulging sides of John's belly teasingly. "I knew you didn't wake me up to talk about baby wipes and groceries." He grinned and leaned up, kissing John deeply. 

 

"Okay, I was getting a bit impatient lying there with a straining hard-on and a cock not in my arse," John said, a shrug and a cheeky grin accompanying his words. He returned Sherlock's kiss, wrapping his arms around the Alpha's shoulders, his belly slightly squished between them. He hummed into the detective's mouth, querulously beginning to grind his hips into Sherlock's thighs.

 

Sherlock grunted and felt his own prick start to stir, responding to the friction and to John's (apparently desperate) arousal. "Poor thing," he murmured, "all hard and wanting with your Alpha blatantly ignorant of your needs." His hands on John's hips pulled him closer, the Omega's belly pressed firmly against Sherlock's thin torso. "Do you want to ride me? Can you still manage, like this?" he asked, caressing John's belly possessively. 

 

John nodded, his hand slipping up Sherlock's neck, fingers curling into his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do it, I think," he said, voice low with arousal. He was already panting, even this activity strenuous in his state. John bit down on his lip hard, grinding down onto Sherlock. ” _Fuck_. Come on, get on with it," John demanded, lifting up so he could pull his pyjama trousers down just enough to expose his arse. "Get the lube."

 

"I'm still trying to get it up, it's been two whole minutes," Sherlock grumbled, twisting to reach for the bottle on the bedside table. "Here, alright, hold still, I don't want to hurt you." He slicked two fingers, curling one back and settling his free hand on John's hip to steady him. Feeling blindly for the pucker of John's entrance, he slid the tip of one finger in, finding John loose and slick. "Did you prep already?" he asked, glancing up as he slipped another finger in, pushing both in to the knuckle without resistance. 

 

"Uh, yeah," John answered quickly, closing his eyes as he felt Sherlock’s fingertips enter him. The first finger hadn’t felt like anything at all, but with the addition John felt a little stretch. He licked his lips and gave Sherlock a slightly bashful nod. "Just...take your time. Rushing you isn't much of a turn-on. Sorry, just...Christ, I want you in me, Sherlock..." he sighed, relaxing from the momentary tension.

 

"I know, I know, it's fine," Sherlock soothed, his free hand rubbing John's hip slowly as he slid in another finger. "I'll be ready by the time I'm done here. You are _open,_ ” he said, slightly incredulous. "I didn't even know you could reach yourself like this." He gave John a quick grin and started working his fingers in and out, pumping slowly. 

 

"Don't be fucking rude," John replied, smirking. Moments later he dropped his head, his mouth falling open as Sherlock fucked him leisurely with three fingers. His breath was heavy and he closed his mouth to swallow, groaning with need. "God, yeah. I'm ready. Ready." 

 

Sherlock dropped a kiss to John's heaving belly, the great orb already covered in a light sheen of sweat. He leaned back, shuffling and squirming to get his own sleep trousers off. He used the lube still on his fingers to slick himself before getting back into position, guiding John's hand down to wrap around his prick. "Your lead," he huffed, his breath hitching as John gave a long stroke to his prick. "Don't over-exert yourself." 

 

"I can take it," John said assuringly, giving Sherlock a few more languid strokes before easing himself down. "Ohhhh Jesus." John's eyes fluttered closed and he lowered himself inch by inch on Sherlock's cock, huffing breaths of near relief as he stopped, nearly bottomed out. John lightly pushed his mate to lie down, making room for his belly, then braced his hands on Sherlock's chest, gazing down at him with pupils blown wide. Ready to start moving, the Omega took a deep breath and lifted his hips, coming a few inches up Sherlock's prick before pushing himself back down.

 

Sherlock groaned helplessly. He loved it when John rode him and took control, and seeing him above him, all swollen and full with their baby, made the experience even more dominating. He couldn't help but push himself up just a little, craning his neck to see John's face as he worked himself slowly up and down on Sherlock's cock. "That's it," Sherlock rumbled, giving an encouraging stroke to John's own prick as he rose up again. 

 

John shuddered at Sherlock's low words, rolling his hips more urgently as his mate stroked his cock. “ _Fuck_ ,” he cursed, feeling his muscles tighten around Sherlock of their own accord. He took a long, deep breath, finding it difficult and almost painful to move for a few seconds, but he managed, grappling for Sherlock's free hand and lacing their fingers together, looking intensely into the Alpha's eyes.

 

Sherlock saw a strange look in John's gaze as he felt him tighten around his cock. "Okay?" he asked, wondering if John was having a practice contraction, perhaps brought on by the strain of their coupling. However, John shook his head mutely, and Sherlock simply held John's hand tighter, giving tiny thrusts up into his mate's body. 

 

John sucked in a harsh breath as the pain receded, relaxing again and rocking his hips fluidly once more. He moved quickly now, pushing hard onto Sherlock's cock and managing to take it all. Changing his angle, he rolled his hips until Sherlock’s prick was rubbing over his prostate with every thrust. "Oh! God. Yes! Yes, _fuck_ , Sherlock - ohh, almost, yeah..."

 

Sherlock nodded and started meeting John's movements with little thrusts of his own, pushing up into the Omega's body and bottoming out on every thrust. He felt John clenching around him again, voluntarily this time, and knew from his babbling that he had to be close. "What do you need?" he asked, steadying his mate with one hand on his hip. 

 

"Fuck me," John ordered in a husky voice. He held his breath, overwhelmed by the pressure and pleasure, looking down at Sherlock intently with half-lidded, dark eyes. "Tell - tell me what I do to you. Tell me."

 

Sherlock let out a throaty moan. "Oh, John. You know what you do to me. You know I can't keep my hands off of you, when you're like this, so big with my baby, so round and full." He groaned and moved faster, fucking John as hard as he could while lying on his back. "I can't look at you without getting hard. I want to watch you waddle, mmh, want to watch you struggle to carry my baby. You make me mad for you. I'm mad about you, John." Sherlock's hands had slid to John's belly, caressing and holding it as he fucked his mate. 

 

John braced himself on Sherlock's shoulders. The detective's voice was like a silk ribbon wrapping around his cock, and John fucked himself rigorously on the prick that was deliciously impaling him. "God, Sherlock -” he whimpered, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut. His inner muscles suddenly seized and he moaned unabashedly, shooting his release all the way to Sherlock’s neck as he rode his mate’s member all the way through his climax.

 

Sherlock groaned and allowed himself to come when he felt the first splatters of John's release paint his skin. With stuttered thrusts up into his mate's body, he spilled inside him, his breath ragged and harsh as he came.

 

John looked down at Sherlock with tired but thankful eyes, and gave a wide smile, looking relieved. He brought Sherlock's hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Thank you," he huffed, giving himself a minute to relax. Still seated on Sherlock, he licked his lips and rested his hands on his heavy belly. "Good, yeah? I'll, er, get you...cleaned up in a minute."

 

"Nonsense, I can clean myself up," Sherlock replied, shifting to sit up and pulling himself out from underneath John. "You lie back and relax, you worried me there for a minute. You need to rest after a workout like that." He gave John a soft, sweet kiss, sliding out from under him and helping his mate lie back on the bed. "I'll get flannels. Rest," he repeated. 

 

John pouted, but couldn't deny that he did feel exhausted now after the zealous sex. He eased himself down to lie on his side, pulling up his pants and sweat trousers. The Omega gently caressed his sweaty, swollen, ridiculously round belly, and felt the baby begin to stir, roused from all the activity. "That's a good lad. Take your time," he said quietly. 

 

John relaxed, taking easy breaths while Sherlock retrieved the flannels. He smiled when Sherlock brought him one, giving his mate a quick thanks as he wiped his stomach and forehead clean of spend and sweat. "Hey," he said, getting Sherlock's attention.

 

"What?" Sherlock asked, working on cleaning a spot of semen that was drying on his chest. "Need help?" He looked over at John, who had set the flannel aside and was looking satisfied. 

 

"No," John answered, waving a hand dismissively. He pushed himself up to sit, grunting, and laced his fingers overtop of the curve of his stomach. He gave Sherlock a triumphant grin. "Guess who's going to be a dad today.”

 

Sherlock blinked. "Erm. I don't know? Did you get a text from someone? I didn't know anyone else was pregnant..." He trailed off, confused. 

 

John's smile went smug, satisfied that he'd completely thrown Sherlock for a loop. He crossed his arms and ran his fingers over his stretched lips, amused. After another few seconds of Sherlock's bewildered staring, John laughed heartily and pointed his finger at his mate. 

 

"Me?" Sherlock asked dumbly, pointing to himself. "But - you're not due for another five days, and you're...not..." He stopped speaking, his eyes glazing over slightly. "John, did you have a contraction while I was _fucking_ you?" He asked, narrowing his eyes. "Are you in labor _right now_ , and you wanted to have _sex_?” 

 

"Of course I wanted to have sex, I was bloody horny! I've got an eight pound baby moving down and pressing on all my erogenous areas!" John exclaimed, gesturing to his belly dramatically and laughing.

 

"I was wrong," Sherlock breathed, unsure whether he wanted to laugh along or shout. "I'm not the mad one, you're mad. Absolutely raving. You're terrible." He climbed back onto the bed, shaking his head and grinning. "So this is it, then? The baby's coming? How long have you known?" 

 

John gave a bit of a cough and took a few breaths to calm himself, huffing out a few residual giggles. "Hah. Um, earlier. It was probably about five, I got up to piss, felt something slick in my arse - mucous plug. Not an hour later contractions started. They're pretty far apart, twenty minutes or so, so I dozed off a while in between. He's starting to descend, and that got my blood rushing, figured I could squeeze one last shag in before I'm out of commission."

 

“You _are_ mad,” Sherlock sighed, laying both hands on John’s belly and rubbing it gently. “But I’m glad, I suppose, that I could satisfy you one last time before you’re ‘out of commission’, as you said.” He leaned down to kiss the stretched skin of John’s belly, fingers splayed wide on the bump. “Right, then. Do you need anything? After that, you definitely need to rest to go through labor.” 

 

John smiled and ran a hand through Sherlock's curls lovingly. "I'm fine. It was great, and I needed it. I can handle it." He sucked in a big breath, his belly heaving with the act, and sighed. "Why don't we go back to sleep for a tick longer, and then we can get up and see about breakfast, yeah?"

 

“Mm, alright,” Sherlock hummed, gently laying John back down and moving so he could lay behind his mate. “Are you comfortable on your side?” he asked, sliding an arm around John’s thick waist and scratching the skin lightly. 

 

"Sherlock, if I could find a more comfortable position, I would be in it," John stated. "I'm fine. Stop fretting so much." 

 

“I can’t help but fret,” Sherlock murmured, sliding one leg between John’s thighs carefully. 

 

John slid his hand to rest over top of Sherlock's and sighed as he closed his eyes. "Tell baby you're thrilled to meet him."

 

Sherlock sighed and nodded, pushing his nose against John’s shoulder and inhaling. “Baby,” he began, shifting his palm a little on John’s belly, “I am absolutely, positively _thrilled_ to meet you. You’ve been quite awhile in the making, and you seem rather large, if your Papa’s anything to go by, so I’m glad you’re coming a bit early and making it easier on him.” He smiled and pressed a kiss to John’s neck. “And I know he’s excited to meet you, too, so just take it easy and be good to your Papa, and I promise we’ll take good care of you when you’re finally here.”

 

John smiled into his pillow, giving Sherlock a jab with his elbow. "Don't think I'm gonna ignore you saying I'm fat even though you sugar-coated it," he remarked. “But I don't anticipate he'll be too difficult. He's not huge by any means, and even if he was, I'd manage. I'm sure I've done enough pelvic floor exercises to birth a foal without a hitch," he chuckled and patted his belly. "Be good, kid, you can come out in a little while."

 

Sherlock smiled and nuzzled a little more into John's shoulder, rubbing his belly slowly. "He'll be good to you. If he's anything like me, he cares about you too much to hurt you." He chuckled at his own corniness, reaching down to pull the sheet up a bit more to cover them. 

 

"I don't think he's going to care too much about hurting me. But don't worry, I can take 'im," John said, laughing. "Go to sleep. Big day ahead." He laced his fingers with his mate's and nestled in, waiting for sleep to overtake him.

 

John awoke sometime late, only to be greeted with a contraction. He blew out a long breath and rolled his hips a bit, trying to relieve the pressure. He made a small grunt as the pain waned, relaxing into the mattress. It was a little past eleven now - time to make breakfast. 

 

Slipping into his dressing gown, John rubbed his still exposed belly, noting how low it was already. "Atta boy," he cooed softly, waddling into the kitchen to start on the eggs.

 

When Sherlock awoke, it was to a rapidly cooling pillow on John's side of the bed. He slid out of bed, wiggling into a fresh pair of sleep trousers, before heading out to find John. 

 

He expected to see him settled on the couch, watching television, but instead his mate was busy cooking eggs. "Didn't I tell you to rest?" Sherlock chastised, laying a hand on John's swayed back. "You need to conserve energy, not waste it doing something _I_ should be doing for you." 

 

John swatted at his mate with the spatula. "Seriously, I'm _fine_. I've already started, you go sit. Me making breakfast isn't going to sap any of my energy. If something goes wrong, you go ahead and fucking boycott eggs," he said tetchily. "I've got it. Scrambled or sunny-side up?”

 

Sherlock backed off reluctantly, perching on the edge of the table. "Sunny-side," he replied, drumming his fingers on the table. "But this is it, John. I don't mean to be pushy, but you need rest, not exertion, even small things. Especially since you're having him here. I don't want you to take any chances with our son." 

 

"Sherlock, honestly, I'm making _eggs_. Calm down," he huffed, shifting his weight on his feet. Suddenly, John hissed and pressed the hand that had been holding the skillet to the low curve of his belly. "Fuck," he cursed. "Shit, buggering...fuck. Mmnn…want toast?" John grunted out, mid-contraction.

 

"Later," Sherlock replied, jumping forward to ease John away from the stovetop. "Breathe, please. Here, hold onto me." Sherlock, glad to have something to do, laid his hands on John's hips and held him steady. He could feel the tightness of John's body through the contraction, and winced in sympathy as John cursed again. 

 

John gripped Sherlock's shoulders and took a few long breaths, before the contraction started to ease. “Fifteen minutes,” he announced in a raspy voice. "Getting there."

 

"Ever closer," Sherlock replied, stroking John's back. "Take it easy for a few seconds. The eggs can wait." He pressed a kiss to John's temple. 

 

John blew out a breath and pressed a hand into his lower back, rubbing at his sacrum to try and relieve the pressure there. "I'm all right," he insisted, but wasn't nearly as pushy as he'd been before. "This is tolerable so far. Nothing like being shot." He licked his lips and turned away, going back to his cooking despite Sherlock's request. "Not nearly as bad as going to war. Or watching you die," he added, his voice low and solemn.

 

"Jesus Christ, John. Nothing like bringing that up when you're delivering our son," Sherlock replied, half-scathing, half-sad. He stayed at John's side as his mate went back to cooking eggs, occasionally rubbing his lower back. "I'll get plates," he murmured when he saw the eggs were nearly done. "And...I'm sorry." 

 

"No…no, I'm sorry," John placated. He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. The Omega set his spatula aside and turned the heat element off on the stovetop, turning and leaning against the counter with both hands on his belly. "That wasn't - it wasn't supposed to be a stab at you - unearthing a past that should stay buried. My point is, this is an exciting thing. A bloody joyous occasion. And do you know what? I _am_ happy. I'm...completely over the moon about this. Sure, yeah, it's going to be rough, but..." he took a long, thoughtful breath, stroking his hands fluidly down the curve of his stomach before continuing. 

 

"You sacrificed your life, everything we had built, your career, just to save me and our friends. And, god, I missed you like hell. Before that, I went to Afghanistan, got myself shot, let my squadron down, and fell into a crippling depression. Fuck, I was fighting in a war with a cause I'd completely lost sight of. But this…this is finally my battle. Do you understand? I'm going in with guns blazing. I'm _ready_. And I know I can handle it. I've got someone depending on me right now, his life is in my hands." John emphasized this by cupping his low carriage, giving Sherlock a serious look. "And I'm not letting him down. I'll be the martyr today. Pain is necessary; being shot led me to you, and your suicide, in the long run, gave us this - a world for our baby to be much safer in had you not been fighting your own battle for two years. Sherlock, today's my battle, and I've never been more ready for anything in my life."

 

Sherlock had listened to John intently, and by the end of his speech, he could only give his mate a watery smile and duck his head in acquiesce. "You're stronger than I could ever be," he murmured, stepping forward and laying careful hands on John's belly. He lowered his head until his forehead rested on the crest of John's shoulder, nestled close so he could inhale his mate's scent - strong, incredible John. "This is your day," he murmured. "You're in control. I trust you." 

 

"I'm in control," John repeated in a sigh, slipping his arms around Sherlock's back and pulling him in for a hug. He exhaled easily, resting his cheek against his mate's head as he gently stroked his lean back. "Okay. Breakfast," he finally said, taking on a cheery tone. Releasing Sherlock, he turned, wobbling over to the toaster and sticking a few pieces of bread in it. "I'm thinking about making some sausage, too. Absolutely famished. I think now that he's showing himself to the door, I've got more room in my stomach."

 

"Wouldn't surprise me," Sherlock replied, pulling down plates from the cupboard and setting them on the table. "Just be careful you don't eat too much, or you'll get - sorry, sorry. I said I was going to trust you." He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Don't mind me, I'm just fretting. Do you want me to get the sausage?" 

 

John curled his lips in contemplatively, before finally shaking his head. "No. You're right, it's probably better I eat light. Contractions make me a bit nauseous. Vomit is not a bodily fluid I'd like to add to the equation today," he decided, eyebrows raised. "Eggs, toast, and jam. That's a good brunch."

 

Sherlock smiled and nodded in agreement. "I'll get the jam, then." He fished around in the refrigerator until he unearthed the jar of blackberry, setting it on the table alongside the plates. "And to drink?" He asked, scooting a plate to its proper place. 

 

"Water's fine," John answered, carrying the skillet over to the table, carefully scooping Sherlock's sunny-side-up eggs onto his plate, before scraping up his own scrambled. He heard the toast pop up, and he trekked over, pulling out the slightly burnt bread and placing them on their plates. "All right, dig in."

 

Sherlock helped John into his own seat before settling in, poking the top of his egg until the yolk broke through and then dipping a corner of his toast into the puddle. He watched John carefully throughout the meal, clearing his plate due to the distraction. When he looked down absently, finding no more food, he stopped and blinked. "I ate all of it," he said in awe. 

 

John snorted. "Good. Who knows when we'll get around to eating a proper meal anytime soon." He spread the blackberry jam on his second piece of toast. Suddenly, he dropped the butter knife and his toast onto the plate, pressing a hand to his side and taking harsh breaths. John blew out through his mouth, his gaze locked intently on something very far away. 

 

Sherlock stopped himself from jumping up, knowing John could handle himself and not wanting to make John irritable. He slid a hand across the table to cover John's, squeezing it gently. "Breathe," he reminded, taking a few breaths in demonstration. "You can do it." 

 

John shot a glance over to Sherlock, probably looking more annoyed than he'd intended, and gave a short nod before breathing consistently as Sherlock had. A few seconds later, the contraction eased, and John visibly sagged. "Caught me off guard," he huffed, rubbing the side of his belly. "Sorry if I startled you."

 

"You did, but it's fine. That's rather your job at the moment, the whole contraction business." Sherlock gave a reassuring smile and squeezed John's hand once more before withdrawing. "I should start timing these. Just so we know, and can keep track. Shouldn't I?" 

 

"You mean you don't have some sort of internal clock already keeping track? Surely you've got a widget in your mind palace dashboard," John said, only half joking. "Yeah. Good idea. That one was a fair bit sooner than I was expecting." He picked up his toast and took a big bite from it, his free hand still rubbing his belly.

 

"Things are probably speeding up a bit, what with you moving about and such," Sherlock reasoned, rising to clear his own plate and cup. He waited until John was done with his dishes before clearing them as well, setting them in the sink to deal with later. "Well, then. What's next?" He asked, standing behind John and idly rubbing his mate's shoulders. 

 

John took a gulp of his water and shifted around so he was sitting sideways. "First thing, I need to get out of this bloody chair. I feel like my arse has been permanently flattened." He tried to heave himself up, but no matter how he contorted, his belly wouldn't cooperate. John gave up with a frustrated huff. "Okay, help, please. Take me to my arm chair."

 

Sherlock chuckled and heaved John up out of his chair, laying a steadying hand on his back and another on his belly. "Oh," he remarked quietly. "He really has dropped." Sherlock's hand slid down the curve of his mate's belly, feeling the hard bulge of their baby low and long as he headed toward his exit. "That must feel strange." 

 

"A bloody boulder he is, right in the bowl of my pelvis," John complained, waddling heavily into the sitting room with Sherlock's support. He dropped into his comfy chair, which was a welcome respite from the wooden seat in the kitchen. "Fantastic," he sighed, though his voice lacked all enthusiasm. "Well. How about a game of Monopoly, then?" John suggested with a smirk.

 

"We'll be playing long after the baby's born," Sherlock replied drily. "I would much rather do...anything else. A television marathon, a movie...just not board games. Please." He perched on the arm of John's chair, rubbing his shoulder gently. 

 

"I was only joking," John said with a chuckle. His hand reached up to grip Sherlock's, and he sighed, considering. "Mm. I suppose you wouldn't much care what we put on, would you? You'll be watching me the entire time, probably." 

 

"Yes." Sherlock didn't bother denying it - his focus was on John, and would be for the foreseeable future. "Perhaps, though, if you would - if it would be comfortable, that is - I'd rather like to be next to you, if you're going to be resting and watching telly for awhile." 

 

John looked up at Sherlock and gave him a slight glare. "Should've said something before I got comfortable. All right, toss me over on the sofa, then," he relented, sighing and raising his arms in a silent request for assistance.

 

"Sorry, sorry. I didn't - sorry." Sherlock carefully pulled John up and helped him onto the sofa, placing cushions and pillows behind and around John for support. Laying a soft blanket across John's belly and lap as a sort of apology, Sherlock slid onto the couch next to his mate, holding him close. 

 

John barely suppressed a grin when Sherlock bustled about the room looking like a kicked puppy. The cushions surrounding him were more than welcome, and he idly rubbed his belly through the blanket. "This is nice. Thank you. I feel comfy and nested. Bit like a kiwi bird; the proportion of baby to mother is about right."

 

"You can still breathe, at least," Sherlock replied, curling up next to the Omega. "Though he is a large baby for someone of your stature to carry. I can imagine you'll be glad to be done carting him around." He leaned over to press a kiss to John's cheek, smoothing out a fold in the blanket over his belly.

 

John sighed pleasantly, relaxing into his small-scale nest of blankets and pillows, enjoying his mate's ministrations; he was sure Sherlock would be wrapped around him like a snake if he could. "God, yeah. Time to dirty up the gorgeous nursery we threw together," John sighed, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

 

"The whole flat, more like. We'll have things strewn everywhere for months." He let out a dry laugh. "But I doubt we'll mind. It'll be like my normal messes, but with baby things this time." He let out a sigh. "God, it's going to be different with him here, won't it?" 

 

"A bit, yes," John answered, smiling. "But I've no doubt we'll adapt; we're evolving creatures, you and I. Hell, you even learned to love, after all," he teased, nuzzling his nose into his mate's cheek, taking the Alpha's hand and rubbing it across his stomach. "You're going to be a great dad, Sherlock."

 

"And you a great Papa, though I never had any doubts about that," Sherlock replied, gladly following John's lead and spreading his fingers wide across John's bump. "Telly, then? To keep you occupied? I've a feeling you've got quite some time before things get urgent." 

 

John hummed and laced his fingers over the top of his bump, shifting in his spot. "Yeah. Put a Bond film in. I'm feeling dangerous." He sent his mate a wink.

 

"You sure as hell are," Sherlock muttered, rising and rifling through the stack of DVDs to find an old James Bond film. He started it playing and went back to the sofa, curling up under the blanket and settling next to John, partially leaning against him and rubbing a circle on his mate's belly.

 

It was only ten minutes into Goldfinger when John experienced another contraction. His hand clamped down onto Sherlock's knee in a vise grip, and he held his breath before his mate reminded him to breathe. He panted harshly, his eyes locked on the telly screen but not comprehending what was happening in the film. "Fffffuck," John cursed, as the pain peaked, and he curled forward into his belly. He sagged back as the contraction let up, and took a few long breaths to regulate himself. "That one was fucking great," he said irritably, finally prying his fingers from his mate's leg.

 

"Apparently," Sherlock replied, massaging his thigh carefully and reaching out to take John's hand. "It was longer than the last one," he said. "Which is good. Moving along." He went quiet then, letting John continue to watch his film. Sherlock never took his eyes from his mate, surreptitiously taking his pulse and relaxing a bit when it went back to normal. 

 

Eight contractions total within the two hour film, and the latest one ended with a long, loud groan from John, who was twisting in his seat in an attempt to relieve the growing pressure. "Need to walk," he announced, huffing and rubbing his belly as the pain dissipated. "Help me up. Hurts to sit."

 

Sherlock made a sympathetic noise and hauled John up to stand, keeping a supportive hand on his back. "Do you want me to stay with you, or do you want to walk on your own?" He asked, absently adjusting John's robe. "I don't want you to fall, and you seem a bit unsteady." 

 

John answered by immediately waddling away from Sherlock's steadying hand, putting his own hands on his lower back to support his heavy weight. "I'm not going to bloody fall," he snapped, starting his circuit into the kitchen around the table.

 

Sherlock gave a curt nod and put his hands behind his back, one wrist clasped by his other hand in a parody of parade rest. "I'll just be here, then," he said quietly, watching John's slow circuits around the kitchen table.

 

Just short of fifteen minutes between contractions, and John was grasping onto the kitchen counter to steady himself, his knees almost giving out. His free hand held the underside of his belly, and he tried to pull the weight up, but his efforts were not fruitful in the least. He moaned lowly, stopping to hiss as the pain reached its climax, and John produced a shout that was rather louder than he was expecting. He placed both hands on the counter and began rocking his body back and forward to relieve the pain that never seemed to end. "Christ!"

 

Sherlock fidgeted nervously as he leaned against the kitchen doorframe. He winced as John shouted and rocked back and forth, knowing his contractions must be growing more intense if his mate was this vocal. “Can I do anything to help?” he asked, hoping John wouldn’t snap at his interference. 

 

"No," John said hoarsely, straightening up and taking calming, steady breaths. He tilted his head back and exhaled, the wind clearly knocked out of him, his hands going to his back once more. "He's... definitely progressing..."

 

“It appears so,” Sherlock agreed, stepping closer to his mate and carefully rubbing his back. He didn’t know what he could do to help, if anything. “Is the walking helping?” 

 

"Define 'helping'," John grumbled, in no rush to start walking again. "I feel like I'm being split in two. But he's definitely closer to being born." The army doctor sighed, before reaching behind himself and sticking his hand into his trousers. After a few seconds, John made a bit of a grimacing face, contorting his back a little. "Mmff…yep. Yep, I'm definitely dilating."

 

Sherlock could only blink as John fingered himself. “Erm…okay. Well. I’d say the walking is helping, then, even if it’s making you hurt more. As long as it’s - a good hurt. Or. Something.” Sherlock swallowed, holding his hands out. “I don’t know what to do, John. I don’t know how to help.” 

 

John removed his hand and scrunched his nose, stepping over to the sink and began thoroughly scrubbing his fingers clean. "When I've got a baby dangling from my arse, then you'll know to catch," John answered, sounding almost serious. After drying his hands, he turned and leaned his back on the counter, laving his belly with caresses once more. "You being here is enough. You make me feel safe. That's all I need."

 

“Can I-“ Sherlock asked, eyeing John’s slow belly rubs. “That would make me feel better. I’m just not sure you want to be touched right now…” he trailed off, stuffing his hands in his pockets to stifle the urge to touch his mate. 

 

John gave a wry smile and nodded, pulling his robe open and lifting up his shirt. Wordlessly, he put his hands on the counter behind him to support himself, and waited for Sherlock's surely tender touch.

 

Sherlock gave John a tentative smile and ducked his head in a nod, stepping forward until his own lean stomach was nearly touching John’s. He slid his palms across John’s rounded belly, feeling how hard and firm it was under his touch. “Must be uncomfortable,” he murmured, sliding his hands all over the low, full bump. 

 

"Understatement of the year," John sighed, closing his eyes and almost immediately relaxing from the gentle attention. "I'm fully expecting him to just burst out of my abdomen like something from a horror film. In all honesty, it's pretty bad, but not agonizing. Yelling helps a bit."

 

“Then by all means, yell,” Sherlock replied, continuing to love on John’s belly. “You’re doing so well so far. You can do this, I have no doubt.” Slowly, Sherlock got down onto his knees so he was eye level with John’s belly. He pressed kisses to all the places he could reach, keeping his fingers splayed on the sides, holding it tenderly. 

 

John offered a small smile, carding one hand through Sherlock's hair affectionately. The coddling from his mate filled him with endorphins, and his plush lips were smooth against his skin, like - “Butter," John suddenly said, looking like he'd just experienced an epiphany. "Shit. We forgot groceries. We need to go to the Tesco."

 

“Now? You’re in labor,” Sherlock protested, confused. “I can go get groceries after, we can’t go out for supplies now.” 

 

"No, I'm not going to want you to leave me after the baby's here," John said firmly. "And god only knows when Mrs. Hudson is going to get back from her sister's... It'll be fine, we're going now. In and out."

 

“You _are_ mad,” Sherlock repeated, shaking his head as he pushed himself up to stand. “Well, you’re not going out in that,” he sighed resignedly, nodding to John’s splayed robe. “Sweat trousers or jeans?” he asked, heading toward the bedroom. 

 

John looked surprised. "Just so you know, I had a rebuttal prepared. Jeans. Like hell I'm going out in sweat trousers," he said, straightening out his robe and waddling heavily toward the bedroom.

 

“Well, I’ve figured it’s just not worth arguing at this point,” Sherlock sighed, following John into the bedroom. “Even when you’re working on pushing a baby out of your body, you’ll get what you want.” He couldn’t help the wry grin that spread across his face as John struggled into his clothes. “Need help?” 

 

"I've got it," John muttered irritably. He was having a hard time stepping into the legs of the trousers. After a few tries, he set his jeans down, putting his feet into them and then staring downward. "Okay, pull them up, please."

 

“Right.” Sherlock knelt and pulled John’s trousers up, pulling the wide elastic band until it rested snugly under John’s belly. “Good?” he asked, adjusting a folded bit of fabric. “And what shirt do you want?” 

 

"Yes, good," John answered, pulling off the t-shirt he'd slept in. "Just... any jumper, if any of them still bloody fit."

 

“Probably a vest first, seeing as you have those in long and your jumpers aren’t,” Sherlock reasoned, fishing out an extra-long paternity vest and handing it to his mate before searching for a non-hideous jumper. “And this one should work, and will thankfully be covered by your coat,” he muttered. 

 

"You mean my coat I can't bloody button?" John asked with a raised eyebrow. He wormed his way into the vest, tugging it down over his low belly, giving it a loving pat. Taking the jumper, he quickly put it on, and nodded to Sherlock. "Are you going in your pyjamas, then?"

 

"Oh." Sherlock looked down. "I forgot. Give me a minute." He hurried out of his pyjamas, pulling on trousers and a button-down before grabbing socks and tugging them on as well. He led the way out to the foyer, helping John into his shoes and jacket before putting on his own. "You're sure you can manage an outing?" He asked, one last time, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. 

 

"I'm sure as hell not letting you do the shopping on your own. Last time you brought everything name brand," John said pointedly, adjusting his coat. "In and out, like I said. I doubt I'll end up squatting in front of the iceberg lettuce. We'll be fine."

* * *

 

 

“Okay, in and out," Sherlock repeated, grabbing a small cart and heading into the first aisle of the Tesco. "I still don't know you can manage being out and about when you're… _in labor,”_ Sherlock whispered. "It can't be comfortable for you." 

 

John exhaled, puffing out his cheeks as he waddled exaggeratedly beside Sherlock. He got quite an abundance of stares, some assuredly recognizing the two, others merely marveling at John's state, or possibly both. He sent a few people some stiff smiles, practically velcro-ing himself to Sherlock. "Walking helps, remember? Lets off some of the pressure. Had a motherfucker of a contraction in the cab so we should be good for ten minutes at least," John whispered back. "Okay, we need... baby wipes, butter, milk, bread, tea, orange juice, coffee (that's going to be heaven, dear Jesus), some pasta and sauce, could probably use some toilet tissue... we need some pads, for me, and hemorrhoid wipes... and I'd like to go through produce and get some fresh fruits and vegetables."

 

"Ambitious," Sherlock muttered, keeping one hand on John's back as his mate waddled down the aisle. He caught several glances from other shoppers, and objectively, he understood why. 

 

Everything was fine until they reached the fresh fruits and veg. "John?" Sherlock hissed, pressing his palm a little more firmly into his mate's back. He was stopped, partially hunched over their half-full cart of supplies, breathing heavily. 

 

John's brow was furrowed in deep concentration, his face red as he appeared to be holding his breath. His fingers curled into the metal of the buggy until his knuckles went white. He shut his eyes tight, a blood vessel straining on his forehead. 

 

Bottling up the pain was probably not a good idea, in retrospect, because when John felt like he might pass out from the agony paired with his lack of oxygen, something burst within him. "Ahhh-HAH!" The sensation of wetness in the back of his pants was enough of a hint of what had just happened, but the total silence of the people around him allowed him to hear the pattering of the liquid hitting the plastic tile of the floor. "Haaaah. Hah. Check out. Check out _now_.”

 

"Fucking hell, John, I told you-" Sherlock cut himself off with an angered grunt and snapped at a gobsmacked shopper to find someone to mop up, waiting for John's contraction to end before ushering the Omega toward the checkout. John was pale and looking drained, so Sherlock quickly unloaded the cart, swiping his card (thankfully without issue) to pay for their purchases. "Come on, then, I'll get a cab and we'll go home. I told you this was a bad idea," Sherlock said under his breath, hefting the plastic bags and leading the way back outside. 

 

"I'm not giving birth in a bloody supermarket and we got what we needed, so I'd say our trip was successful," John said in a low, empty voice. He was in a daze as Sherlock hailed a taxi, and next thing he knew, he was being shoved into a seat. He groaned helplessly as he sat uncomfortably, leaning his head back onto the seat and spreading his legs wide. Fuck, it felt like the baby was going to just fall right out. “Low..."

 

"You've probably dilated quite a bit, if your waters have gone," Sherlock replied, feeling a bit guilty for snapping at his mate. "We'll be home soon, then I can check you this time. He's getting close," he added, laying a hand over John's ever-lowering bump and rubbing gently before taking his mate's hand. 

 

It was only a five minute respite from when his waters broke to when he had another contraction. They were different now, without the buffer of the amniotic sac, and his muscles squeezed around the hard limbs of his baby instead. "Oh fuck!" He gripped Sherlock's hand, constricting the circulation in his fingers. "Nnnggghhh!" His other hand went to the low curve of his womb, in attempt to move the baby up his birth canal, but to no avail. "Oh god! God, fuck-- ngh-ahh!"

 

Shooting the cabbie an apologetic look, Sherlock let John squeeze the living daylights out of his hand as a terrible contraction rolled through him. "Try to breathe," he urged gently, giving John's hand a little squeeze. "We're nearly home, nearly there, you're doing very well, easy, just breathe for me." 

 

"You fucking breathe!" John snapped through gritted teeth, tossing his head back and rolling his hips. Eventually, the pain began to let off, and John panted harshly, beads of sweat rolling down the sides of his face. "Oh god...fuck...that one was a bit...unpleasant..." He flicked his eyes over to Sherlock, looking tired but also apologetic; it was his fault they were in this sodding taxi, after all.

 

"So I gathered," Sherlock replied quietly, reaching up to wipe beaded sweat from John's forehead. "We'll be home soon. Just a few minutes. Then you can be in our bed, or wherever you want to be, and be as loud as you need." He offered John a small, nervous smile, stroking his short hair. 

 

John nodded briskly, turning his face into Sherlock's touch. He took slow, shaky breaths, hoping to have some form of calm before the next contraction came.

 

The sat in tense silence for a few minutes before another contraction wracked John's body. He curled forward, squeezing his mate's hand as a low, guttural moan bubbled up from his throat. He could feel it now, the baby, descending toward his birth canal - he could feel the difference in his baby's position, pressing against his cervix. It was almost time. "Ohhh, ohhh, mnghh - Sher - ah-haaah!" John's shoes ground against the floor of the cab, and he raised himself up a bit off of the seat, but even that didn't rid him of the pressure. "Christ!"

 

Sherlock's free hand fluttered nervously, and he twisted in his seat to try and console his mate. "That's it, good man, just breathe, please? That's good, good, I can see the flat, you're almost home, you can do this," he babbled, watching anxiously as Baker Street grew ever closer. "Here, home, just ride it out and I'll get you upstairs right away." He patted John's hand anxiously as the cab rolled to a stop, waiting for the contraction to wane so he could pay the fare and take John and their groceries inside. 

 

When the contraction ended, a low throb was still sounding deep in his body, and he took a few seconds to breathe it out. He felt light-headed, and would probably be slow on the stairs. He didn't wait for Sherlock, throwing open the door as he started to heave himself out. "Get the bags. I'm fine, I can make it to the door, just..." John trailed off, waddling heavily up to the door, wincing as he took the few steps up on the stoop. He supported his weight by pressing a hand to the door while the other cupped his low belly, and the army doctor produced a low whine as he rocked back and forth.

 

Sherlock glanced to his mate with concern in his eyes, hurriedly paying their fare and grabbing the groceries. He hurried across the pavement to his waiting mate, who was either experiencing another contraction quick on the heels of the last, or was simply in great, constant pain. “I’m here,” he murmured, setting down the groceries and unlocking the door, one warm hand on John’s lower back. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”

 

"Jesus," John groaned, taking Sherlock's arm to keep himself steady as he led them inside. "Fuck, this kid is not wasting any time." He puffed out long, deep breaths, his steps coming down like cement blocks as they approached the stairs.

 

“I’m going to leave these here and help you up, and then come back to get them,” Sherlock said after a moment of indecision, setting the bags down and catching up with John, who was eyeing the stairs with loathing. “He’s got to be plenty low, this won’t be easy,” Sherlock breathed, sympathizing with his mate as he thought about how uncomfortable it would feel to be climbing the stairs with a baby on its way out. 

 

John gripped the hand rail on his right side, still holding onto Sherlock on his left, and mentally prepared himself for the physical trial. He squeezed his eyes shut as he raised his leg to take the first step, his other leg following to rest beside it. John could feel the contraction building, and didn't want to be mid-step when it hit too hard. He gripped the banister hard and tilted his chin down to his chest when the contraction peaked. John made a long, low sound and rolled his hips, suddenly much less vocal now that he was out of the cramped cab and standing up. 

 

“Good, good man,” Sherlock murmured, carefully rubbing John’s lower back and steadying him with a light hand on his hip. He could feel the tension and stress in John’s body and he held back a sympathetic wince, mentally counting the seconds to measure the duration of the contraction.

 

John's face went red as he panted harshly through the contraction. His whole body was taut and every muscle constricted around his baby as he was forced down. He tilted his head back as the contraction waned, catching his breath - his lungs were working almost as hard as his uterus. "Try this again," he muttered, attempting to ascend the stairs once more.

 

“Easy,” Sherlock reminded, keeping his hand on John’s sacrum and slowly following him up the stairs. It was slow going, but Sherlock had no desire to rush his mate. “When we get up there, do you want to be in the bedroom?” he asked as they reached the first landing. “Or do you still want to walk around?”

 

"I want to walk. Can't lay down, can't sit, hurts too much…fucking kills my arse," he complained, taking a few seconds to pause at the landing. John was glad he did, because another contraction assaulted him, and he squeezed Sherlock's arm. A strained whine was muffled against his mate's greatcoat as he held onto him. "He's...close," he grunted in a low, empty voice.

 

“You don’t have much time between contractions,” Sherlock observed, once again supporting his mate as his body trembled with a contraction. “He’ll be here soon, John, just stay strong.” He pressed a chaste kiss to John’s temple, unsurprised to find it hot to the touch and damp with sweat. “Stay strong.”

 

"I'm always strong," John mumbled, a hint of confidence in his exhausted voice. The pain dissipated, and he pulled back to give Sherlock a forced, lopsided smile before immediately setting out again to make it up to their flat. He tugged on his mate's arm, pulling him up with him. 

 

A smile broke through Sherlock’s worried expression as John tugged him along, and Sherlock took John’s hand and squeezed it gently. When they reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock let John into the flat, helping him out of his shoes and jacket. “Trousers off?” he asked, hanging John’s coat on the rack before shrugging off his own. 

 

John shook his head. "No, no, not yet…just go get the shopping, yeah? I want to walk around for a bit," he explained, bracing one hand on the doorframe.

 

Sherlock nodded and headed back out of the flat, pausing just before the staircase. “Just stay close to something solid,” he said, “to keep your balance if you have another contraction. I’ll be back in…less than thirty seconds, christ, I’m overbearing, sorry,” he muttered, hurrying back down the stairs and shaking his head. He grabbed all the grocery bags in both hands and headed back up to the flat, glancing up at the doorway, where John was standing, frozen. “Everything okay?” he asked, carefully squeezing behind John and setting the bags down on the floor. John was strangely silent. “John?”

 

John stood perfectly still except for a brief, slight trembling of his thighs, his brow furrowed in concentration. His fingers dug into the doorframe, and after a few more seconds, John let out a long held breath and panted heavily, muscles in his face finally relaxing. He glanced up to Sherlock, looking determined and slightly guilty. "That was…a bit tougher than I'd anticipated. The...pushing thing. Okay, trousers off...trousers off, I'm not giving birth in my pants."

 

“You were pushing?” Sherlock blinked for a few seconds and then snapped into action, dropping to his knees to pull down John’s bottoms. “I was only gone for twenty seconds, you started pushing and didn’t even tell me?” he laughed, his voice high and a bit nervous. He carefully lifted John’s legs and slid his trousers and pants off, setting the damp garments aside. “Right, then. Pushing. What do you need me to do?” he asked, looking up at his mate.

 

"Just…watch. Catch. Look pretty," John instructed drily. He shifted his legs further apart, now free from his constricting trousers, and sucked in a deep breath. "Right-o, here we go," he warned, before bearing down hard with a short, cut-off grunt.

 

John was right - there wasn’t much to do, at least not at the moment. Sherlock’s glance flickered to John’s bottom as his mate pushed, but he couldn’t see any sign of an emerging baby, so Sherlock just laid careful hands on John’s back and hips, rubbing lightly and hoping it comforted (and didn’t irritate) his mate. “Good, good,” he encouraged as John grunted again, obviously working with his body’s instinct as he pushed. 

 

John finished his push with a loud sigh, hanging his head in front of himself as he leaned against the door frame. He rocked back and forth a moment, exhaling slowly. "Hey. Go put the cold stuff away... I'll be fine while you do that, just...don't want the milk to go bad. Promise the baby won't fall out while you're gone."

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh as he pushed himself up off his knees and gathered the groceries. “Fuck me, Sherlock, I’m not in labor. Let’s go to the grocery store, Sherlock, my waters won’t break,” he joked, looking at John with a loving smile and a shake of his head. “Put the frozens away, I promise I won’t deliver our son without you here.” 

 

"Oh, sod off," John barked, shaking his head. "I get it, I haven't had a good track record today. But this time I can promise that an eight pound infant isn't going to just fly out my fucking arse." He coughed a bit of a laugh before huffing a few breaths and bearing down once more, bending his knees slightly as he attempted to open up his hips.

 

A little of the weight lifted off Sherlock’s shoulders. John seemed to be doing fine, if he could take a joke and answer with one of his own in the midst of hard labor. “Remember to breathe,” Sherlock called, hurrying to put away the few refrigerated and frozen items while his mate labored in the next room. As soon as the fridge door closed Sherlock was on his way back to John, giving a quick encouraging rub to one shoulder before kneeling once more.

 

"Do me a favor and do the bloody breathing for the both of us," John grunted as he stopped pushing. He blew out of his mouth, quickly wiping his damp forehead on his sleeve. He rocked in the doorway, waiting patiently for the next contraction, and bore down hard when it began to climax. His knees bent into a slight squat, spreading his legs open as far as possible, trying to expel the baby that was firmly lodged in his birth canal. John groaned, gritting his teeth. "Fucking hell, he's a mammoth. This is your...fucking...fault, you...sodding beanpole..."

 

“He’ll have inherited your width and my length,” Sherlock replied, brushing a kiss to John’s hip as he settled back in. “I doubt the length will be a problem, so you’ve only yourself to blame.” He laid one hand on John’s opposite hip, feeling the Omega tremble with the effort of pushing. He murmured quiet encouragements as John strained, rubbing his back as the contraction finally eased.

 

John un-furrowed his brow, taking careful, panting breaths and shaking his head. "'My width'? You complete arse," he said exasperatedly. The Omega sucked in a harsh breath as his body began to squeeze once more, and he strained with it, a long grunt rumbling in his throat. 

 

“Breadth. Your shoulders, I’m not saying that you’re fat,” Sherlock replied, patting John absently as John pushed again. He stopped in the middle of a quiet ‘good, keep going’ as he saw John’s entrance begin to bulge. “You’re - you’re bulging, John,” he said, tapping urgently on John’s hip. “I can’t see him yet, but he’s getting close, keep going.” 

 

"Dear god," John sighed, releasing his efforts to take a break between contractions. "He's coming." He was relieved to hear his baby was so close, that he was almost done. Determined now, John braced himself and took a new sturdy stance in the doorway, taking a few huffing breaths before pushing as hard as he could. 

 

A strangled groan echoed in the hallway. John could feel the skin around his entrance bulging around the baby's head. He stopped for a few seconds to breathe and regather his strength, bearing down with a long moan.

 

Sherlock stayed silent now, watching intently as he began to see signs of their baby emerging. John’s perineum was bulging even more now, and the skin around his entrance was beginning to stretch wide in preparation for the passage of the baby’s head. Sherlock carefully slid one finger around the rim of John’s hole, and he drew in a sharp breath as he felt the slick, solid head of their baby touch his finger. “I can - oh, god, I can feel him, he’s so close,” Sherlock babbled, running the pad of his finger across the top of the baby’s head. 

 

John hissed as he felt himself start to open, and when the contraction ended, he reluctantly stopped pushing and sighed when he felt the head recede slightly. He smiled at Sherlock's amazed voice, and could faintly feel his finger touching his entrance. "Should crown on the next one…get ready," John warned, taking deep breaths in preparation for his next push. He closed his eyes and gave a shove, leaning forward slightly where he stood and splayed his legs wide, bending into a semi-squat. 

 

John felt the baby making progress, his entrance stretching painfully wide as the head began emerging slowly. He stopped, remembering to breathe, and was relieved when the head stayed where it was. The contraction wasn't quite over, so he gave a final, hard push, gasping when suddenly the entire head popped out of him so quickly it was nauseating. Shocked, John stared into the stairwell with wide eyes and panted. "Holy _hell_.”

 

“My god,” Sherlock said at the same time, finding his palm suddenly supporting their son’s head. “John, you - well, you’re probably aware, but you’ve just delivered his head,” he said, his voice slightly empty with the shock of it. As he was behind John, he could see the baby’s face, and he quickly turned his head to wipe away a sudden stream of tears. The baby had John’s nose and chin, and a full head of whitish-blond hair. “He looks like you,” Sherlock managed, his voice breaking a little. “Oh god, he looks just like you, keep going, he’s almost here.” 

 

John huffed a laugh and dropped his head, shaking it in disbelief. "Handsome bugger, then," he joked, his eyes becoming wet. "You'd better be ready, if the shoulders are going to be anything like his head..." John puffed his cheeks out as he took deep breaths, and bore down again, immediately feeling the shoulders bulging at his entrance. "Fuck," he grunted, realizing that perhaps their baby really had inherited his broad shoulders. As the contraction was ending, one shoulder finally popped free, and the baby dangled heavily from his entrance as the other started to emerge - but their baby boy clearly wasn't ready to come out, staying firmly lodged in his opening. "Christ that _hurts,_ ” John complained, gasping as the contraction ended. "Ready?"

 

“God, yes, I’m ready,” Sherlock replied, both hands now supporting the baby’s head and emerging shoulders. He wiped away more tears, his shirt quickly growing damp. He leaned forward and pressed a quick, open-mouthed kiss to the small of John’s back before adjusting his hold on their son, so close to being born. “You’re incredible,” he told his mate, his voice thick. “He’s almost here. You’re amazing.” 

 

John heard the smack of Sherlock's lips on his back more than he actually felt it, and he grinned, thankful for his mate's encouragement. In the long run, Sherlock really was the force behind all of John's strength. He sucked in a deep breath, hoping of wouldn't take much more to birth his son, and he bore down with a solid grunt. 

 

It was only a few moments later when the rest of the baby's body slid from John’s and into Sherlock's waiting hands. John gasped in relief, his legs wobbling from all his effort, but he kept himself standing, gripping the doorframe for support. "Oh god…is he okay?" John asked tiredly, trying to look over his shoulder. 

 

“He’s perfect,” Sherlock replied, the last syllable delightfully obscured by the cries of their newborn son. “Oh, yes, little one, you’re perfect, look at you.” Sherlock held the baby as close as he could, carefully wiping his face clean with the cuff of his sleeve. He looked up at John, tears streaming unapologetically down his face. “You _incredible_ man, look at what you’ve made,” he said, smiling broadly up at his mate.

 

John giggled with joy, letting his head fall forward. The corners of his eyes crinkled in delight as he listened to the wailing cries of their baby boy. Tears began to streak his cheeks. "I think you might have helped a bit," John suggested lightly, letting go of the abused doorframe and holding his hands between his legs. "Give him here, let me a get a good look at the precious lad."

 

Sherlock nodded and obliged, carefully passing their baby to his Papa. As soon as John drew the infant upward, Sherlock himself rose and laid a steadying hand on his mate, crowding close to admire their baby boy. "I told you he looks just like you," he said, wrapping his arm carefully around John's diminished waist.

 

John beamed, cradling their son as close as the umbilical cord would allow. He leaned in to gently press his lips to the wailing boy's head, and turned to look at Sherlock, smiling proudly. "Poor thing. Missed out on the genes of a Greek god," he said, laughing. "Still a good looking bloke, if you ask me. Yeah, you are." John cooed to the baby, rubbing a thumb against his little arm. "You came so quickly, you did. Didn't put up much fuss. But Daddy and I were ready, weren't we?"

 

"Well, you were," Sherlock replied, carding a hand through his hair. "I don't know if I was, but you certainly had things under control." He ducked down to press a kiss to John's temple. "Let me go get the medical kit, since I didn't have time before, and I'll cut the cord so you can hold him properly. Can you manage here, or do you want to sit?" He asked. 

 

John closed his eyes for a moment, before glancing back down at his newborn son, who was still whimpering and trying to curl into his Papa's warmth. "The second I move from this spot, I'm going to realize just how much pain I'm actually in. That being said, I should probably sit before I collapse from exhaustion. Lay a towel down on the couch, yeah?"

 

"I'll be right back." Sherlock loped into the bathroom, grabbing an armful of towels and the medical kit and heading back to the living room. Casting a quick glance in John's direction he laid the towels out on the sofa and set the kit aside, returning to his mate. "Alright. Slowly now, let me help you," he said, putting a steadying hand on John's back.

 

John winced as he took slow steps over to the couch. He sat down carefully, holding his baby close to his chest to keep him warm. "We need to wrap him up soon. Don't want him to get a chill," John said, rocking the boy slightly. "Hello, little man. Daddy's going to cut your cord and wrap you up, then it's lunchtime. Cor blimey, I can't believe you're really here..." He placed soft kisses on the baby's sparse hair, inhaling his sweet new baby scent.

 

Sherlock wiped away another errant tear and rummaged in the medical kit until he found scissors, a clamp, and sterile gauze. "Alright, young man, it's time for me to cut your cord," Sherlock said, clamping the baby's umbilical cord and tying a tight knot around the side closer to the baby's belly. Looking up at John with a grin, Sherlock carefully cut through the thick cord, laying the clamped andsevered end aside. "There. Your own person," he cooed, rising and perching on the sofa next to his mate and newborn baby.

 

John cradled the baby boy close into his chest, looking down at him endearingly. He grabbed one of the towels from the stack and gently began wiping the tendrils of goop from his son. The baby seemed a little miffed, and John shushed him quietly, a smile on his face. "Let's try to clean you up, love," he murmured. "And we'll get you bundled up in a warm romper, and maybe Daddy and I can decide on what you're going to be called."

 

“I think that’ll be up to Papa, little one, since he did all the work,” Sherlock replied, rubbing John’s back and shoulders as he gazed down at the newborn. “God, he is beautiful, you did so well,” he sighed, resting his head on John’s shoulder briefly to stifle more tears before looking back down at the baby boy. “We’ll need to get you cleaned up, too, after you deliver the placenta,” he added. “And then you can feed him.” 

 

"Oh, right," John said, looking over the baby to see fluids and a few spots of blood painting his thighs - dear god, he could see his thighs! "I'm a bit of a bloody mess. Literally." The army doctor pressed a gentle kiss to his son's head once more, and he beamed as he looked down to the little boy's chubby, now-content face. "I was thinking Scott as a first name," he suggested, sending Sherlock a grin so wide his eyes smiled with it. "I think it's fitting. What do you think?"

 

Sherlock was ready to scoff at John for the use of his own middle name, but he closed his mouth and thought about it for a moment. “You know,” he mused, “That’s not bad. Scott is a rather nice name, actually.” He returned John’s smile and reached over to brush his hand over the baby’s - Scott’s - arm, gasping slightly as his fingers wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s pinky when he touched his hand. “Scott is a nice name,” he repeated quietly, jiggling his hand a little in the baby’s grasp. 

 

"Scott Hudson," John announced firmly, pressing his lips to little Scott's forehead as if to christen him with the name. The Omega sighed and sniffed a bit, still overwhelmed with emotion by the beautiful baby boy that he'd been carrying for what felt like forever finally being in his arms. "Thank you, Sherlock," John said suddenly, looking at his mate with wet eyes. "I really couldn't have done this without you."

 

“I didn’t do anything important,” Sherlock replied thickly, his own eyes growing misty as John looked at him again. “I just took care of you. That’s what I’m supposed to do, is take care of you. And take care of Scott.” He swiped at more tears as they spilled from his eyes, and he let out a wet laugh. “Thank you,” he said. “For giving me a son.”

 

John gave a light laugh and shook his head. "Couldn't have done _that_ without you, either," he pointed out, and looked back down at Scott, who was making little smacking motions with his lips. "Let's take care of the rest of this, then."

 

Twenty minutes later, the placenta was passed and stored in a biohazard bag in the freezer (next to the frozen peas they'd just bought), Scott was clean and dressed, as was John, and they were settled into bed. The sun was shining, still mid-afternoon, and all was as it should be, as John brought Scott to his fat nipple and coaxed him to nurse for the first time. "Look at that," he whispered, watching with fascination as the newborn drew milk from his breast without much hassle. "Amazing. Smart little bugger you are, just like your dad."

 

Sherlock felt more tears prickle behind his eyes as Scott laid one tiny, gentle hand on John’s bare chest as he suckled. The baby’s eyes were closed and he was making contented grunting noises as he rooted at John’s nipple, and John himself looked like the picture of motherhood - positively glowing and relaxed as his son nursed from his breast. “You’re both beautiful,” Sherlock said quietly, resting his head on John’s shoulder with his arm wrapped around John’s waist. His free hand laid on what was left of John’s soft belly, rubbing gently as he had before Scott was born. “I wish you could see this the way I see it. You’re amazing.”

 

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," John teased, but then frowned deeply. "Don't really take a photo, I'll end your life before you get to burp him." He smiled again and sighed, his body relaxing with the oxytocin rushing through him as his milk let down, feeding their baby. John stroked Scott's head with his thumb, the thin, light hair unbelievably soft. "I'm no more amazing than you are. Jesus, you had to put up with me for the past nine months, but today takes the cake, I'd say, as far as putting you through hell."

 

Sherlock stared at John. "I didn't _do anything_ ," he repeated. "You did all the work. All I did was...was follow you around, and try to help when I could. You didn't put me through hell." He blinked, shaking his head. "I don't see how you could think you did. Ever. You've done all the hard work this whole time. I've done _nothing_ of significance." 

 

John sucked in a deep breath, looking annoyed. He took a few moments to situate Scott at his other breast, waiting patiently for him to latch on again. John set his eyes on Sherlock and looked at him seriously. "Listen to me. I don't know how many times you're going to make me say this, but I _really couldn't_ have done this without you. I know you feel like you didn't do much, but, well, there wasn't much that you could do hands-on. But what you _did_ do is unfathomably important - you were here for me. You did what I needed you to do. You were here, and you kept me calm, and I knew I could rely on you when things got difficult. I wasn't worried. I wasn't worried because I had you, and...God, all of this is incredible." John paused, gazing down at their nursing son lovingly, stroking a finger over his warm cheek. "It could have been a complete disaster. But it wasn't. I was so bloody excited to be having your baby, Sherlock. I'm still over the moon, and I don't think that's going to change, ever. I know I can do anything when you're with me. You did...everything."

 

Sherlock's lip wobbled just a bit and he shook his head, trying to mask a sniffle. "Yes, well." He laid one hand over John's, his fingers trembling just a bit before he pressed down a little harder. "You're there for me, too. You've...you've given me a son. Which is more than I ever could have asked for. So. I owe you a debt of gratitude, as well." He did sniffle then, looking down at their newborn son, nestled in John's arms, entirely content. "Oh, god," he breathed, his voice trembling. "Now you've gone and made me cry again. He's perfect. You're perfect. I love you." He leaned over and pressed a wet kiss to John's lips before burying his face in the crook of John's neck, drawing in quiet, shaking sobs.  

 

John lifted one hand to touch Sherlock's cheek, smiling brightly at him as he wiped away his tears with his thumb. "I love you too. Come on now, I didn't think I had _two_ babies," he teased in a gentle voice, leaning in to kiss Sherlock's jawline. When John pulled back, Scott was done eating, still moving his lips but no longer drawing any milk. "Alright, love. That's a good boy, time for your dad to burp you, then."

 

Sherlock's pulse picked up as John spoke quietly, pulling the infant gently away from his breast. Scott fussed a little as Sherlock took him, ever so gingerly, into his arms - the first time he'd held his son properly. "Oh, hello," he murmured wetly, carefully rising from the bed and resting Scott upright against his shoulder, bouncing him gently as he patted his back. Sherlock's face crumpled as he walked, the milky, new smell of his son filling his senses. "Oh, Christ, hello, my little Scott." 

 

John watched closely as Sherlock walked carefully around the room. He smiled, adjusting the pillows behind him, eyes trailing Sherlock's circuit around the room. "He smells amazing, doesn't he? I mean, all babies have that fantastic new baby smell, but...he smells like us," John worked out. "We made that little human there."

 

"We did," Sherlock replied, reaching down to grab a towel and lay over his shoulder as he passed by John. He surreptitiously wiped his tears before laying it down, taking in a deep breath and reveling in Scott's weight against his chest. He was _here_. "Come now, little one. Give Daddy a nice burp, won't you?" He patted Scott's back carefully until the baby spit up, his tiny tummy now full and settled. "There we are. What a good little boy." Sherlock wiped Scott's lips clean of milk and laid the towel aside. He then settled the baby into his arms, cradling him against his chest. He was _beautiful_. "Look at you," Sherlock murmured, "look at you." 

 

John laughed fondly, his eyes drooping a little. Now that the baby was in Sherlock's charge, he was realizing just how exhausted he was. "You look good with a baby. God, the moment we step outside with him, all the young pretty Omegas are going to be clawing at you," he said with a huff. He swatted away the thought for now, folding his arms and tilting his head back, eyes closed. "You want to be helpful? Watch him for a bit, eh? My work is done for now until he needs fed again. Or he just wants me."

 

"I can do that," Sherlock replied, his voice quiet as Scott let out a tiny yawn. "I think he's tired, too. You both deserve your rest." Sherlock sank onto the bed next to John, rocking baby Scott slowly. "I'll be here when you wake up. It's my turn to take care of you both, now."

 

John winced slightly as he shifted, slipping into a soft t-shirt. He got as comfortable as any man wearing a heavy duty pad and who had just given birth an hour prior possibly could, and he gave his mate and child a content smile. "You'll take good care of him, Sherlock." John yawned and closed his eyes, sighing. "If Greg calls, tell him not to drag us out on any cases until Sunday, at least."

 

"Sunday?" Sherlock said incredulously. "John, it's Tuesday." John lifted an eyebrow and Sherlock sighed, resigned. "And you're fully aware of that, of course. Right. I'll tell him, then." He let out a sigh and looked down at Scott, shaking his head. "Your Papa is mad," he whispered. "But I love him anyway."

 


End file.
